


A thread with no end

by Latter_alice



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Season/Series 13, eventually, going to vaguely follow s13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27882378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latter_alice/pseuds/Latter_alice
Summary: Cool metal lighter in hand, he finally takes a glance at the reason for all of this.It's small, swallowed whole by the thick yellow clothes Sam has it in. It yawns, puppy-like, and fixes his wide eyes on Dean.Blue. Big and impossibly blue. Its shades too light, closer to ice than ocean, but it pulls something loose in him. It's — it's almost like —When Jack is born, he doesn't come out fully grown. Very vaguely follows season 13
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 29
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

Ash. 

A wing-shaped shadow charred to the ground, each feather as distinct as it is gone. The last reminder that Cas was always an angel. Always something Dean could never keep. 

Dean must've sat there for hours. Long enough to hear the Nephilim’s newborn screams. Long enough for Sam to quiet them down. When the sun peaks over, and the colorless skin of his face still doesn’t move, Dean somehow does. 

Yellow doesn’t compliment him well, and curtains aren’t good enough, but it's all Dean has to wrap him in. 

It's all he has. 

They get the wood, and Dean can hardly remember it, the Nephilim. He sets the pyre up, the movements much too familiar and practiced. And the Nephilim doesn’t exist. Not until Sam insistently helps him finish the pyre that shouldn’t be, and retrieves it with a mumble that his son should be at his own father's funeral. 

Is that what it is? 

Cool metal lighter in hand, he finally takes a glance at the reason for all of this. 

It's small, swallowed whole by the thick yellow clothes Sam has it in. It yawns, puppy-like, and fixes his wide eyes on Dean. 

Blue. Big and impossibly blue. Its shades too light, closer to ice than ocean, but it pulls something loose in him. It's — it's almost like — 

_His own father’s funeral._

He takes the baby from Sam's arms, gentle and reverent, and then flicks the lighter to life. 

Words. People do speeches at these. But he opens his mouth and all he can do is stare at the glow of the lighter. After a beat passes, he tosses it. 

_I'm sorry_

He pillows the newborn’s head against his shoulders, a solid weight. Greedy flames consume it all, orange and angry and _wrong,_ and ash-colored smoke bleeds into the sky. 

Time stops, in a way. The fire crackles. Hisses. Static overtakes Dean's mind, and he only moves to adjust the baby when it fusses. 

Sam eventually walks over, pats his shoulder in a weak gesture. 

"I’m gonna... go pack up." 

Funeral pyres take a long time to burn. Distantly, Dean's aware of it. So he nods, reaches into his pocket and hands Sam the Impala's keys. He takes them and squeezes Dean's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, Dean." 

Dean flinches at the sting, darts his eyes away from the fire and turns his head a fraction more away from Sam. Towards the ground. Needle-like pricks shoot across his shoulders, the small movement enough to hurt after his necks been glued for too long. 

"Me too." 

Sam gives him one last pat and he’s gone. The door squeaks when he goes in the house. 

Sam's right. To get moving. They need to go. Need to... figure out what to do. But his legs are like boulders. Or rubber. Too heavy, too weak. It's the same result either way. 

At some point he lets the weakness in his legs win out and slumps to the ground, baby held close to his chest. The dirt around them is bone-dry, and any intermittent patches of the dying, green grass are almost choked out completely. 

The flames exist in his peripheral. It has a presence, a force of its own that presses into the side of his mind. He scratches jagged lines into the useless soil, curls it in his hands and doesn’t look. 

He cant look at it. But he should. Should watch every passing moment until it's gone. Be a witness. 

He cranes his neck up a fraction and freezes. 

Its Cas. Cas is the one up there. It's _his_ flesh burning. His hands and his eyes and his body that wasn’t his but was. 

His heart stutters. It's out of sync, fluttering slices in his chest. He digs his dirt-crusted fingertips into his stomach and jerks forward. 

It’s Cas and it cant be. It can’t be real — none of this is real. His eyes prickle. They're hot with tears but feel barren and dry. Every muscle is locked in place, half tingled and numb, and he can’t breathe. 

His lungs burn for air, but he can’t unhinge his jaw, untangle his throat. 

Feeble limbs shift against Dean's chest, and the baby wails. Some distant corner of his mind says _Sammy needs you._ He doesn't think, just reacts like the last three decades didn't happen and rocks the feather-light kid against him. 

It doesn't stop — doesn't help. A longer-dormant part of him lights up red, shouts _Sammy_ needs _you,_ like he’s still a kid with a missing dad and a bottle that went cold hours ago. It's a different kind of pain. One that lets his throat loosen enough to take in a sliver of breath. 

Wood snaps and sizzles, the noise only broken by a shakey _shhh,_ and croaks of _you're okay_ as Dean rocks the baby and himself on top of the dirt that can’t grow shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying this crazy thing called updating a fic. I'd like to try this again, but I'd also like to move on. And since its been a week moving on won.  
> Anyway. This is gunna be different from s13. Mostly because it has to be. Jack being a baby changes what everyone does and some peoples emotions. So this is the PSA that this will have s13 elements but very much not be the same

When the sharp edges of adrenaline settle, the last couple of days are a blur to think about. The absence of it is always its own kind of tired — aches become apparent again. His temples sting. All thoughts are filtered through sludge. His stomach gurgles out loud groans. The reminder is a desperate attempt to make bodily functions matter again, but the desire for food is numb. If anything it makes him sick.

He shakes his head, uses his free hand to blanket his face, pinch the bridge. Trapped under the rough pressure, his tear ducts throb. But it’s all right. It’s fine.

Fucking peachy. 

Sloppy and mechanical, as Dean pulls the two of them off the ground. He doesn't look at the embers. The ash. His joins cry against all movement, each jagged step a chore. What should be solid ground slips loose under his boots. He has to catch himself with each half-stumble towards the house. Little snivels turn to full body whines, and Dean doesn't blame the kid. It can't be fun to get jerked around by some idiot that forgot how to walk right. 

The door juts open with a creak, and whatever course of action he might've tried to take vanishes. 

Unfiltered sunlight glimmers in through the curtainless window. Dust particles dance in yellow above the table where it's — it’s just empty now. His last pitstop. The last place Dean would ever get to look. To touch. Legs on autopilot, he trudges over. 

Light glistens off the table's glossy finish. Glints against the discarded keyring Sam somehow remembered to salvage. Carefully, he skims the tips of his fingers over the cool surface, and dread sits like a rock in his stomach. It was warm, right after. But the air has long since leeched any heat Cas left behind. 

Throat tense, he cups the keyring under his palm. Tightens his fist around it until the metal digs in and his arm trembles. 

It's not fair. None of this is fair. They used to have more allies. Friends. Something they could fall back on after so long of having nothing, but none of it even lasts. Like the universe has decided The Sam and Dean Adventure just ain't multiplayer. 

"Dean?" 

He shoves the keys in his pocket. "Yeah. Down here." 

Sam clunks down the steps and gives Dean a tight smile. Grey bags under his eyes highlight the bloodshot tendrils. His whole body slumped in on itself, the exhaustion of the last however-the-fuck long hitting him like a brick. Maybe he looks that bad too. 

Over one shoulder Sam has the world's largest baby bag — lime green and burgeoning with diapers. The zippers stuck halfway around. It thunks when it hits the floor, and Sam shakes a bottle. "Made some formula. There's an extra in the side pocket." 

"Thanks." Dean takes it. "Gonna have to toss the other one. Stuff can only sit out an hour." 

Sam doesn't say anything to that, just scrapes a chair to the table, plops down, and buries his face in his hands. That's okay. Silence suits Dean just fine. 

He repositions the baby in his arms, cradles the head against his shoulder so he's more upright. The kid latches on to the plastic nipple with ease. 

The last time he fee a baby was a lifetime ago in some stranger’s home, babysitting with an ex-angel post attempted-murder. He and Cas had straightened out his not-dates house, and the baby started fussing. The bottle was already made. He didn’t think about it when he started feeding the kid. When Cas saw him, he gave Dean a pleased smile and said _you're good at this._

It jolted his pulse. Compliments had a way of hitting him funny, but right then? In the low light of a picture-perfect suburban home? Right from the very human Cas who has sex and goes on dates and looks at Dean like he’s worth something? 

Neck warm and mind blank, he offered to help Cas do it right without thinking. 

And it was good, the light touches, soft adjustments that weren't necessary. But Cas never dressed down that much, so it was better than good. Dean spent the whole time thinking about how thin his cotton shirt was. Cas was smaller without the layers, and the warmth of him unfiltered. He tried to peel his hands away, but it was like he couldn't stop. Angel or mud-monkey, Cas felt strong and whole. 

The comfort of the words stuck with him for days. The feel of Cas underneath him never left. 

God, he should be here now. 

The baby’s pudgy face grimaces, and Dean moves the bottle back until it evens out again. 

"We need to figure out what we're doing." Sam's palms muffle his voice. 

"We're going home. Welcome to the joys of parenthood. Here’s to hoping it doesn't kill us during puberty." 

_"It_ has a name." Sam drops his arms to his sides. "Jack. Kelly made videos on her laptop for him." 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well ain't that just lovely?" 

Sam's jaw drops. _"Dean."_

He's two steps away from being the spitting image of some scandalized Victorian chick, and it crawls under Dean's skin. 

"What? _Jack_ here is the son of Satan, Sam. Fucking _pardon me_ for not caring about mommy’s little home videos," Dean says. The baby — Jack, whatever — whimpers. Body tense, Dean slowly slides the bottle from his mouth. 

"He's a baby, not a monster. And I'm just saying we don't have to — to tuck our tails and go home." 

White spit-like liquid dribbles from Jack's mouth. Dean sighs. 

"Fan-freakin'-tastic. I forgot babies did this crap." Dean sighs, storms over to the table, and places the bottle down with a hard clank. "I'm not seeing an array of options here. We can't exactly put a Nephilim up for adoption. Or hire a babysitter." Carefully, he brushes off Jack's mouth with the color of his onesie. It’s probably the cleanest thing they have to do it with.

"There's Mom. If the portal was opened once, there's gotta be a way to do it again. Maybe the Book of the Damned, or the Demon Tablet..." Sam perks up. "We could try and get Donatello to help —” 

"Okay, I'm gonna stop you there." Dean lays Jack flat against his shoulder and pats his back. "First of all, you really want a soulless dude and Lucifer's kid bumping shoulders? Don't think they could be, I dunno, a bad influence on each other?" Jack releases a puff of air and Dean adjusts him back down. He levels a hard stare at Sam. "Second of all: Moms _dead._ Nothings gonna help that." 

Sam doesn't miss a beat. "You don't know that." 

Buzzing vibrates from Dean's pocket. He yanks it from his pocket for it. "Pretty sure I do. Lucifer ganked her the minute the portal closed." 

"You can't —" 

_Unknown._ He sends the asshole to voicemail. 

Sam shakes his head. Sighs. "Whatever. Who was that?" 

"Not Donatello." Well, it could've been. But whatever. He grabs the baby bag, then slings the lime green wrecking ball of a bag over his shoulder. "You've got Baby's keys. I'm taking the truck." 

The coach squeaks. Before Dean can make it out the door, Sam grabs the strap. The force yanks him in place. Dean swivels around and glares. Sam drops his hand and gives Dean a weary look. 

"Can we just talk about this?" 

Dean swivels around. "I don't know what you want from me. Crowley's dead. Kelly's dead. Cas is —" Pain pangs his chest, a little twinge that sends pin-pricks through his torso, down his arms. His eyes dart away and land on the table. The discarded, half-finished bottle sits just outside of the sunlight’s path. "Mom’s gone. We even lost Rowena. So I'm gonna take the kid, find a motel the next state over, and put up whatever sigils I can to let the dick brigade know they aren't welcome. Rinse and repeat until we’re back home." 

Sam scoffs, but whatever energy he had left is burned out. "Whatever. We'll talk later." 

"Unlikely." 

By the time Dean walks over to the table and grabs the bottle, Sam's halfway up the stairs. 

Dean pushes past Sam and grabs the bottle. By the time he walks through the door, Sam's halfway up the stairs. 

Ash has blown around the yard, smeared it in grey. Eyes downcast, pointedly away from the remnants, he beeline for the truck. Wind whistles by and smears ash across the lawn. Dean stares at the mustard-colored wet spots on Jack's clothes instead. 

Cars are like a testament to the owner. The truck is immaculate. The burgundy shines — there’s not a spec of dirt marring the strips of pearl-white. 

Dean doesn't bat an eye at the car seat. It’s green. Of course it’s green. His breath doesn't catch at the stupid cartoon bee sticker smiling at him on the car seat’s side. And he doesn't think about Cas. 

Not him stumbling through a Walmart visit to buy the thing. God, he bets the nerdy little guy compared brands, sifted through online reviews in the middle of the aisle. He doesn’t picture how pleased Cas must've been at finding a pack of sticks, of all things. How the rest of them are most likely sitting in the glovebox. How it was probably the last enjoyable moment he had. Dean doesn't think — _he doesn't._ Merely shrugs the baby bag off onto the floorboard, buckles Jack in, and clicks the door closed. 

Sweat slick forehead pressed against the doorframe, Dean squeezes his eyes shut. 

The last conversation he had with Cas is a blur. An actual conversation, not stress-filled bickering over the newest pile of shit dumped on their doorstep. 

Dean tries to swallow, but the motion stops halfway through, and there’s nothing there to force down. 

The last movie night he'd managed to drag Cas into was over a month ago. It might’ve been the last time where either of them were reasonably happy. The last time his lips would tilt up in that small way that knots Dean's stomach. It isn’t fair. It's all wrong, and there’s no way to fix it. No magic is strong enough to bring an angel back, The only witch that could’ve tried is dead too. And any power Heaven could spare wouldn’t be used to help him. There’s only one shot to take, and it's the same useless one everyone’s thought of trying at some point. 

Dean grabs the side of the truck bed and turns his head towards the sky. He sighs. Here goes nothing. "Okay, Chuck. Or God, whatever. We need your help. You said — you said the world would be fine with us. It isn't. We've lost everything." 

He takes a deep breath, rocks his head to the ground. "You left. And I've never asked you for anything. Never begged. But now you're gonna bring him back. Cas. Mom. Hell, even Crowley." His hand tightens. "You owe us, you son of a bitch." 

"Please." It's begging. He knows it is and doesn't care. He’d beg for weeks straight if it wasn’t useless. "Please help us." 

A beat passes. Nothing happens. He didn’t expect it to work. God's never really gave a shit before, has he? 

It's fine. All fine. 

Jack cries when Dean slams the door. He strangles the steering wheel between his hands, hands that itch to inflict. Hit. Destroy. Sure as fuck not to nurture, not to quell the newborn screams, because Cas was wrong. Dean isn’t good at this.

A handful of deep breaths later, he leans down and fishes out a pink pacifier from the bag. Jack latches onto it, his pudgy face relaxed. Blue eyes float up to Dean. Innocent, full. It stings, and Dean turns away before his body uses whatever scraps of water it has left to make him cry again. 

When he brings the engine to life, Zeppelin creeps through the speakers, one track after the next in an order he memorized long before Cas got the chance. 

He plays it front to back on repeat until hunger and exhaustion win out, and he finds a motel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I'm saying is the mixtape was definitely in the truck, and if it didn't get left behind in canon, then Dean had to give it to Cas a third time. Poor guy.
> 
> The goal is to make the next chapter as long as the first two combined. And also still up in seven days.
> 
> Let me know if you enjoyed <3


End file.
